The King of Torts

On a snowy night in late January, they worked until after midnight going through it, then made detailed plans for the attack. Clay assigned Mulrooney and two other lawyers, two paralegals, and three secretaries to the Maxatil litigation.

At two in the morning, with a heavy snow hitting the conference room window, Mulrooney said he had something unpleasant to discuss. "We need more money."

"How much?" Clay asked.

"There are thirteen of us now, all from big firms where we were doing quite well. Ten of us are married, most have kids, we’re feeling the pressure, Clay. You gave us one-year contracts for seventy-five thousand, and, believe me, we’re happy to get them. You have no idea what it’s like to go to Yale, or a school like it, get wined and dined by the big firms, take a job, get married, then get tossed into the streets with nothing. Does something to the old ego, you know?"

"I understand."

"You doubled my salary and I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. I’m getting by. But the other guys are struggling. And they’re very proud men."

"How much?"

"I’d hate to lose any of them. They’re bright. They work their tails off."

"Let’s do it like this, Oscar. I’m a very generous guy these days. I’ll give all of you a new contract for one year, at two hundred grand. What I get in return is a ton of hours. We’re on the brink here of something huge, bigger than last year. You guys deliver, and I’ll do bonuses. Big fat bonuses. I love bonuses, Oscar, for obvious reasons. Deal?"

"You got it, chief."

The snow was too heavy to drive in, so they continued the marathon. Clay had preliminary reports on the company in Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, that was making defective brick mortar. Wes Saulsberry had passed along the secret file he’d mentioned in New York. Masonry cement wasn’t as exciting as bladder tumors or blood clots or leaky heart valves, but the money was just as green. They assigned two lawyers and a paralegal to prepare the class action and to go find some plaintiffs.

They were together for ten straight hours in the conference room, guzzling coffee, eating stale bagels, watching the snowfall become a blizzard, plotting the year. Though the session began as an exchange of ideas, it grew into something much more important. A new law firm took shape, one with a clear sense of where it was going and what it would become.

The president needed him! Though re-election was two years away his enemies were already raising money by the trainload. He had stood firm with the trial lawyers since his days as a rookie Senator, in fact he’d once been a small-town litigator himself, and was still proud of it, and he now needed Clay’s help in fending off the selfish interests of big business. The vehicle he proposed for getting to know Clay personally was something called the Presidential Review, a select group of high-powered trial lawyers and labor types who could write nice checks and spend time talking about the issues.

The enemies were planning another massive assault called Tort Reform Now. They wanted to put heinous caps on both actual and punitive damages in lawsuits. They wanted to dismantle the class-action system that had served them (mass tort boys) so well. They wanted to prevent folks from suing doctors.

The President would stand firm, as always, but he sure needed some help. The handsome, gold-embossed, three-page letter ended with a plea for cash, and lots of it. Clay called Patton French, who, oddly enough, happened to be in his office in Biloxi. French was abrupt, as usual. "Write the damned check," he said.

Phone calls went back and forth between Clay and the Director of the Presidential Review. Later, he couldn’t remember how much he had initially planned to contribute, but it was nothing close to the $250,000 check he eventually wrote. A courier picked it up and delivered it to the White House. Four hours later, another courier delivered to Clay a small envelope from the White House. The note was handwritten on the President’s correspondence card:

Dear Clay,

I’m in a Cabinet meeting (trying to stay awake), otherwise I would’ve called. Thanks for the support. Let’s have dinner and say hello.

Signed by the President.

Nice, but for a quarter of a million bucks he expected nothing less. The next day another courier delivered a thick invitation from the White House.

Urgent Reply Requested

was stamped on the outside. Clay and guest were asked to attend an official state dinner honoring the President of Argentina. Black tie, of course. RSVP immediately because the event was only four days away. Amazing what $250,000 would buy in Washington.

Ridley, of course, needed the proper dress, and since Clay was paying for it he went shopping with her. And he did so without complaining because he wanted some input into what she wore. Left unsupervised, she might shock the Argentines and everyone else for that matter with see-through fabrics and slits up to her waist. No sir, Clay wanted to see the outfit before she bought it.

But she was surprisingly modest in both taste and expense. Everything looked good on her; she was, after all, a model, though she seemed to be working less and less. She finally chose a stunning but simple red dress that revealed much less flesh than what she normally showed. At $3,000, it was a bargain. Shoes, a string of small pearls, a gold and diamond bracelet, and Clay escaped with just under $15,000 in damages.

Sitting in the limo outside the White House, waiting as the ones in front of them were searched by a swarm of guards, Ridley said, "I can’t believe I’m doing this. Me, a poor girl from Georgia, going to the White House." She was wrapped around Clay’s right arm. His hand was halfway up a thigh. Her accent was more pronounced, something that happened when she was nervous.

"Hard to believe," he said, quite excited himself.

When they got out of the limo, under an awning on the East Wing, a Marine in parade dress took Ridley’s arm and began an escort that took them into the East Room of the White House, where the guests were congregating and having a drink. Clay followed along, watching Ridley’s rear, enjoying every second of it. The Marine reluctantly let go, and left to pick up another escort. A photographer took their picture.

They moved to the first cluster of conversation and introduced themselves to people they would never see again. Dinner was announced, and the guests proceeded into the State Dining Room, where fifteen tables of ten were packed together and covered with more china and silver and crystal than had ever been collected in one place. Seating was all prearranged, and no one sat with his or her spouse or guest. Clay escorted Ridley to her table, found her seat, helped her into it, then pecked her on the cheek and said, "Good luck." She flashed a model’s smile, brilliant and confident, but he knew she was, at that moment, a scared little girl from Georgia. Before he was ten feet away, two men were hovering over her, grasping her hand with the warmest of introductions.

Clay was in for a long night. To his right was a society queen from Manhattan, a shriveled, prune-faced old battle-ax who’d been starving herself for so long she looked like a cadaver. She was deaf and talked at full volume. To his left was the daughter of a Midwestern shopping mall tycoon who’d gone to college with the President. Clay turned his attention to her and labored mightily for five minutes before realizing she had nothing to say.

The clock stopped moving.

His back was to Ridley; he had no idea how she was surviving.

The President spoke, then dinner was served. An opera singer across the table from Clay began to feel his wine and started telling dirty jokes. He was loud and twangy, from somewhere in the mountains, and he was completely uninhibited when it came to using obscenities in mixed company, and in the White House no less.